


Ho, Ho, Cheffio!

by Crollalanza



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Future, Gen, timeskip fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 06:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30118269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crollalanza/pseuds/Crollalanza
Summary: What’s the worst that can happen? They don’t laugh? Well, you won’t know if you don’t try and fly, Shouhei!The one good thing, as Fukunaga's about to go on stage for his first comedy gig, is that no one he knows will be there.At least ... that's what he thinks.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9
Collections: Valentine's Day Lockers 2021





	Ho, Ho, Cheffio!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pomme (manta)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/manta/gifts).



> Winny! I could not resist writing some Fukunaga for you. I hope you enjoy this.

_Jacket?_

Chewing the side of his mouth, he contemplated taking it off in case it was hot under the lights.

_Did I iron my shirt sleeves?_

His mind blanked. He kept the jacket on.

Why was he spacing out over this when he was used to crowds? He’d played for years, had overheard commentators talk about his spikes. This _… breathe_ … This was nothing.

( _Except this time it’s just you and you can’t blend in with five other people or eleven if you count the opposition_.)

“Shut up.”

_Breathe._

_What’s the worst that can happen? They don’t laugh? Well, you won’t know if you don’t try and fly, Shouhei!_

Fukunaga Shouhei rolled his shoulders, heard a satisfactory click so repeated the exercise, and then moved a little closer to the stage. He had his props in a case (a pot which he’d pretend was hot, drop and make a gag about hotpot, a jar of pickled plums for his umeboshi in your back joke, and also a floppy hat with cats’ ears on it in case he got stuck.) He swung his arms above his head. _Stay loose, Moose_ and waited as the woman currently performing came to the end of a convoluted story about Salvador Dali, gave the audience a bow, a lot of thanks and fled the stage to a smattering of applause.

 _Jeez, they’re half asleep,_ she whispered. _Good luck._

And just like that, it was his turn to take the mic and make ‘em laugh.

 _Thank all the gods they’re strangers,_ he thought, blessing the fact he’d sworn the only person who knew he was performing—the guy he’d run through his routine with—to secrecy on pain of never cooking omurice for him again.

“Aaaand now,” yelled the compére, “give it up for a new guy—hashtag be kind everyone—Chef Shouhei!

_Oh ho, that name’s gotta go._

And then he was on stage, high-fiving (but missing) the compére as they passed, suitcase in his hand staring out at the rows of seats in front of him.

H. E. L. P.

 _This was such a baaaad idea. I’m not funny. Why did I think I was?_ His throat swelled as if he had a banana stuck in his larynx.

 _Fly?_ He stood on his tiptoes then flopped his heels back to the floor. _I can’t even jump!_

Staring up at the spotlight, Shouhei wondered if he could just stand there for a while and not blink. His throat further constricted.

_Why a banana?_

He didn’t know how long he stood there, but the realisation that the audience weren’t booing him off yet, gave him a boost, so he treated them to his goofiest smile. _I’ll kick off with the hotpot story._ “Hey! So, like the compére-beyond-compare said, I’m a che-e—”

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone’s head move. It wasn’t that he expected the audience to remain motionless, but this was different. This moving head was horribly familiar with its Mohawk and …

 _I’m going to kill you, Shibayama. Kiss goodbye to the omurice train,_ Shouhei seethed, deliberately looking away from the group sitting on the right hand side, and tried to get back on track.

Had he been on any track? At all?

One from _that_ group leant back, burying his chin in his sweater.

_Banana!_

_Kenma was trying to eat one and we wanted to hug him._ _Oh, his face!_ _Hee hee._

“Bananas are funny, don’t you think?” He tilted his head to the side, and if the audience were wondering what was going to happen next, then they weren’t alone. “Apeeeeeling. Oh ho, old joke, old joke alert,” he said, speaking into his hand as if it were a walkie-talkie. “Boo the guy off quick-hehehe.”

There was a titter in the front row and some stifled snorts further back. _Okay, Funny-Guy, not too bad._ But banana-related humour was generally visual and he didn’t have one in his case.

“I need to fetch something from the back,” he said, and scurrying to the wings, he picked up a fire bucket and sauntered back on. There was a collective sigh of relief from the group at the side, who possibly thought he’d done a runner.

“Fire buckets,” Shouhei began, swinging it in his hands. “Are very useful things.” He grinned goofily. “I’m getting waved at by the stage manager who wants this back, but here’s my problem, I like to carry one around with me … just … in … case.”

_Breathe._

The bucket was empty, so he upended it, and sat atop, pushing his knees together but splaying out his feet. All thoughts of his scripted set had fled his mind, but he continued to grin.

“What’s in the case?” cried someone who sounded suspiciously like Shibayama.

Maybe it was a nudge, but he was sky high in a different direction now.

“I’m a medical detective and that case is closed,” he replied blithely. “So, any of you ever played volleyball?”

“YO!” Kuroo whooped, before Kai whacked him on the arm.

_Kai-Kai, what a guy!_

“Only I got some tales to tell. First off…” Shouhei stood up, switched the microphone to his other hand, and started to walk to the side of the stage,

“I played a lot, right, and I can tell you that High School volleyball is the worst, you know. Honestly, the drama, the excitement, the _connections_ , the heartbreak and that’s just detention when you’re late for Science class ‘cause you wanted to perfect your serve.” A few giggles but more ‘huhs’ so he mimed a run up to a serve, adding in the sound effects, then reached right up, clenching his fist. “Silence!” he hissed. “I’m Miya Atssssumu!”

The audience laughed—not just the guys—but others too.

“Ahhhh, you’ve heard of him! Not that I ever played against Atsumu, or served like him, or even dyed my hair, but his brother’s onigiri has a great rep and I’m a chef so we’re kinda related.

“But it’s also the best, High School volleyball, I mean, in case you forgot what I was on about, because, you see, there’s always a banana. Yay, see what I did? I got back to bananas.

“We ate bananas after a match for energy and comedy value. There’s something intrinsically funny about a banana that you don’t get from an orange, do you? Unless … unless you’re querying why it’s called an ‘orange’ and why a banana isn’t called a ‘yellow’. Now, I could run with this and turn it into a whole fruit-related set, but I’m onto volleyball now and if I stop I might never get back to it. So after one match, our setter’s on the ground, so exhausted with all his throwing in the air stuff, he can barely peel his banana.”

He mimed a toss, and then collapsed in a heap on the floor, failing to peel the invisible fruit, earning a howl of approval from Tora and a bark from Kuroo, which got the audience switching their focus to them.

“Hey, hey, back to me! I’m the funny guy!” Shouhei commanded.

“To be fair, after a match, we’re _all_ tired. There’s a lot of running around in volleyball, as well as ‘giving it your best’, and ‘not letting the ball drop’,” he continued, putting on a movie narrator’s voice, then flipped back to normal. “Okay, not so much the Middle Blockers because they get li’l breaks and the Liberos get bigger breaks but we never mention that …”

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’ll let you in on a secret, all volleyball players—even Japan’s Cannon, Ushijima Wakatoshi—are shit scared of Liberos. What they lack in height they make up for in lung capacity. My ears are still ringing. DING, DING, DING-A-LING!”

It wasn’t just the Nekoma crew laughing now, especially when he moved his head from side to side. _Maybe the kooky stuff does work?_

A kooky cook!

“So how about I tell you how I came to join the volleyball club.” Standing up straight, he stuck one hand in his pockets. “I was trotting into school on my first day, backpack on my … uh … back, all eager-beaver and bright eyed, be _sieged_ by club presidents thrusting leaflets at me and assistants with clipboards. There was only one club I wanted to join, I mean it was a no brainer, and I was making my way there, when I tripped over my lace—” He fell to the floor, “hurt my elbow and burst into tears. They banned me from the Theatre Club after that for over acting … That’s where you all go ‘ahhhh’ because it’s sad.”

“Ahhhh,” cooed the audience as one.

“Nooo, so saaaaad,” sighed Lev.

“Thank you.” Wiping his eye, Shouhei sat cross-legged and pretended to mope, “It was painful at the time. But on the upside, the volleyball guys thought I’d fit right in. What did I tell ya, all passion and drama!” he finished and jumped to his feet.

 _I’m carrying them,_ he thought, hearing not just a burst but a roll of laughter. _But it’s time to wrap up, Buttercup!_

“I could switch to chef comedy, show you my great hot pot gag with a pot I pretend is hot—oh, well I guess I ruined the punchline, right? Like the whole joke is based on the true story of me taking a hot pot of hotpot out of the oven and then dropping it all over the floor and myself because… Hey, guess what? The hotpot pot was hot!”

He turned his grin into a grimace. “I gueeessss … you had to be there. Oh, wait, I _was_ there and it wasn’t funny then. OW! OW! OW! Burnt myself twice with the same hotpot! AAAAGHHH THE FLAMES!”

Snatching up the bucket, he placed it over his head. “See I knew this would come in handy.”

As the audience cheered, Shouhei bowed, caught the bucket in his left hand when it fell off his head and then raised it to the audience as if holding the Spring High Volleyball trophy. “Thank you, everyone, I’m Fukunaga Chef Shouhei—Schopenhauer? Yeah, I’m working on that, and you’ve been … um … an audience!"

The last sound he heard above the audience applause as he escaped to the wings was Tora snorting and the strange, strange raspy chuckle that Kenma called a laugh.

_Wow, Kapow! I did okay._

***

“You’ve been an audience! Hahhahahahahahhaha,” Tora yelled, holding Shouhei in a headlock.

“Why are you all here?” Shouhei gasped.

“You didn’t think we’d let ya face this alone, did ya!”

“I hoped you would,” Shouhei replied after wresting free, “but I guess I’m glad my kouhai _betrayed_ me.”

Shibayama grinned, not remotely fazed, and handed him a bottle of beer. “It wasn’t a betrayal, more a saving your ass because the umeboshi joke is weird.”

“You sound like Yaku-san,” Lev sighed. “Fukunaga-san, I cried when you told us you’d hurt your elbow.”

“I cried when you stuck the fire bucket on your head.” Kenma said.

“Funny, right.”

“No, I was frustrated neither Tora nor I had thought of that.” He plucked at Shouhei’s sleeve. “If you ever set up a TikTok, let me know. You’re … uh …”

“A comedic genius?”

Kenma considered. “Interesting.”

_I’ll take that._

“He’s seen the potential. Be scared,” Kuroo crooned, then chinked his bottle to Shouhei’s. “Yaku will be sorry to have missed heckling you tonight. Ding-a-ling! We always knew you were a funny guy.”

“Funny ho ho or funny peculiar?”

“Definitely ho ho, Cheffio,” Kai replied, and slapped him on the back. “Separating our cats proved that.”

 _Cheffio, whaddyer know?_ _Ho. Ho. Ho._

Beaming beatifically, he bent down to open his case, pulling out the jar of plums.

“Not the umeboshi joke,” Shibayama pleaded.

“Comedy makes me hungry. Plum, anyone?” Shouhei offered, opening the jar.

“Sure. Gotta be better than a banana,” Kenma replied, shuddering as he selected one. “I can’t even look at one without remembering my death on court.”

“No guts, you!” Tora declared, taking one for himself.

“Okay, knucklehead!”

Shouhei chuckled as he swallowed a plum, his eyes flitting from side to side. _Where is that fire bucket?_

**Author's Note:**

> I never realised how hard writing stand up comedy was until I attempted it a few years ago. It's even harder writing for someone else - hahahhahahahha. I kind of envisage Fukunaga being an idiosyncratic and visual comedian, which is where this stream f conscious came. Anyway, it was surprisingly fun to write, so I hope you laughed too.


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